The Smith House
by FrenchieLeigh
Summary: AU: Beneath the illusion of perfection that is high society, a den of sin and pleasure beckons highborn ladies through its carved doors with the promise of romantic fantasies fulfilled, for The Smith House is where the dreams of women come true and the unforgiving realities of daily strife are erased, if only for the night. Rivetra, Mikenana, NileMarie
1. The Black Sheep

**Author's Note:** I'm going to drop it here and only here that this fic is going to contain many dark themes such as **mental, emotional,** and **physical abuse** , discussions on/of **pedophilia** , **manipulation** , and of course, **prostitution**. If you are sensitive to _any_ of these subjects, I suggest not progressing.

For those of you who have been waiting very patiently for me to get this up, thank you for your constant support and words of encouragement. Here it is, finally!

 **The Smith House**

Chapter 01

When the ladies Petra and Nanaba stepped into the glittering establishment that was _The Smith House_ , they gave each other sideways glances and squeezed each other's hands in reassurance. They'd done it. They were here and they would do what they had come to do. It hadn't been easy to arrive unnoticed (at least they _prayed_ they had not been noticed), but at the lighthearted suite being played out on by an orchestra in what may have constituted as a ballroom, they felt their nerves ease. They'd be safe here.

Everyone was.

"Ladies," came the excited crooning of a woman, sauntering over in breeches and a waistcoat, her shirt cuffs rolled up to her elbows, "how may I help you?"

Petra took a small breath inward, "Um."

"Overwhelming, your first time, isn't it?" the woman joked, adjusting her spectacles and letting out a small hoot of laugher before taking them both by the hand and leading them further into the building. She snapped her fingers and their shawls and gloves were taken from them with a smile and put away in what they only assumed to be a coat closet.

"Are we that obvious?" Nanaba queried, her eyes scanning the activity on the carpeted floor just a few steps below them.

The woman, one Hanji Smith let out a low chuckle. "Oh yes. Every woman who comes walking in here their first time is suddenly a virgin again. It's adorable."

Petra swallowed. It'd been so long since she'd been a virgin she barely recalled what it meant to hold such a thing to her name.

"Darling."

Their attention was drawn from the sprawls of card tables and banquets, of private dances and poetry readings, to their host, and the man who ran the establishment, claiming its name.

 _Erwin Smith_.

With one arm draped around his wife, he gave the ladies before him a warm smile, "Looking for a gentleman then?"

"Yes," Petra breathed, her voice forced yet fanciful. Yes for one night she wanted a gentleman. For one night she would have the illusion of what she had always desired, for this was where the dreams of women came true. _The Smith House_.

The city's male whorehouse.

It had caused quite a stir when it opened, the male population of society in an absolute uproar over the idea of _men_ selling themselves to _women_ , their woman, as it just so happened. Still, throughout the many tantrums thrown by the elites, _The Smith House_ stood strong and the ladies of the city contented, being able to pay for what they were not able to find in their own beds.

But _The Smith House_ was not exclusively sexual, though the majority of the transactions ended between the sheets. The men offered in the house were to be the very essence of what their female clients demanded of them. They were a fantasy, not a quick tup. It was that idea of fantasy that had the two young women standing before it all tonight.

"If you'll allow me, ladies," he requested, "I will show you to some of our available gentleman."

With a quick, shared smile, they followed the tall, blonde man down to the floor.

"My husband is not for sale!" Hanji called after them, exploding into laughter at the thought, then flitting off to another room.

They passed by ladies engaged in chess matches, gentleman feeding copious amounts of champagne to others, and even two people so heavily engaged in their kisses it seemed as if they had forgotten anyone else was present.

 _What if I am seen_ , Petra wondered, her heart throbbing in her chest. She would be might not be punished for this indiscretion, merely mocked and tormented. But if Nanaba, who had so much more at stake, could venture here, then so could she.

"Here we are." With a flourish, Mr. Smith presented four men. Petra scanned them all, standing from their card game, their clothing every bit as fine as hers. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought them peers.

The first man was tall and slender, a soft smirk turning up the corner of his lips. The charmer type. The second, a dark haired man who stood rigid, in an almost militant manner. Though his lack of smile made him appear to be a dark, devil may care type of man, his nervous eyes betrayed him. The third man was a hulking brute of a man with an oversized well, _everything_. Petra was certain if his hands wouldn't break her, his nose might.

The last man was not putting on any sort of airs to impress the two ladies who stood debating in front of him. Short in stature (particularly compared to his colleague), he wore disinterest as he did his own skin. _Make your choice and be on your way_ , said his cold, cobalt eyes. Still, through that, there was something that interested Petra, something painful, something familiar.

"Him," she whispered, feeling quite rude, pointing at the man as if he were a pastry, "I would like to book him for one, no, two hours, if at all possible."

Mr. Smith quirked a brow but said nothing, writing up her receipt.

"And if you wouldn't mind," Nanaba put in, "might I spend two hours with the largest?"

At this, Erwin's eyes darted to the lady's neckline where ugly purple and brown splotches poked out from the lace that trimmed it.

"My Lady," he said, his brilliant blue eyes twinkling, "Perhaps Mr. Church would better suit you. You are so. . .lovely and delicate I fear that Mr. Zakarius may—"

"Please," she interrupted, fear filling her features. She took a small breath and lowered her voice, "he has kind eyes."

He said nothing further, nodding to the two gentlemen and taking payment from the ladies. They offered their arms and went their separate ways, Petra taking a moment to glance back at her friend on the arm of such an enormous man. Would he be gentle with her? Certainly he must. It was his duty to be as she requested.

She would be fine.

Petra, on the other hand, wasn't quite sure where to go from here. Was it up to her to decide where they went? Or was he, the professional, able to predict what she would please her? No, she doubted he could read why she was here tonight. She would _have_ to take the initiative.

"How will we entertain ourselves for our time together?" she asked, doing her best to hide the trembling in her smile.

The short man shrugged. "You came to me."

She slid her eyes over to his face, bored and unamused. Flirting with him would get her nowhere and if she was honest with herself, she wasn't up for idle flirting to begin with.

"Take me to your room," she requested, raising her head a little higher and pretending she was still the lady her name claimed her to be, and that she wasn't in a brothel, on the arm of a prostitute. "And tell me your name."

"Levi," he grunted, leading her up a gilded spiral staircase, "Levi Ackerman."

Petra paused, gripping his arm a bit tighter, "An Ackerman?" she asked, "as in, _The Ackermans_?"

He stiffened at the mention of his family name and clenched his jaw. She wanted to pry, to know how an _Ackerman_ had found himself in the business of selling his body, but she could see the the colour that had left his face and decided it was best not to pry into his personal business.

"Here," he said, pushing down on a brass handle and swinging open a carved wooden door. Petra took one last sweep of the hallway, being sure no one was milling about that might recognize her, and stepped into the room.

It wasn't anything like she had imagined it to be. From what she had heard of brothels, rooms where bare, dirty, and of questionable safety, but this was decked in every luxury she herself had. It wasn't an overly large room, but it was fitted with a large bed decked in furs and crimson velvets, an ornate wardrobe, a sitting area, and even a copper tub, towels, and fresh dressing gowns.

Petra inhaled as she looked about the room, and when she breathed outwardly, it rattled in her stays.

Levi stood by the bed, resting against one of the four posters, arms crossed, waiting for her next command.

"It's lovely," she complimented, throwing him a nervous smile. He didn't return the expression.

"Are we going to fuck or not? Two hours is a lot of time to fill in a place like this."

Surprise flashed across her face and she looked away, cheeks burning. What was she doing here? She shouldn't be in a place like this. She should be at home, or at the party she had been invited to, not dallying with young men of his kind.

"You've never done this before."

His words came out flat and factual, with no room for concern, warmth, or reassurance. She smiled again and shook her head and he let out an annoyed sigh. He wasn't any good with women so the ladies that chose him _knew_ what they wanted. They came to him for a quick bit of pleasure and went on their way, not wasting time on false sentiment and fairy tales. This girl, however, had no idea what she had gotten into with choosing him. He was not going to play the prince just because she was having doubts.

"You're married, aren't you?" he asked, looking her up and down. There was no way she was a virgin. She held herself too well. She wasn't giddy or giggly looking for her first taste at a man. She was young, but not inexperienced.

"Yes," she replied with a whisper, "I am married."

"He's a nice guy," Levi supposed, "an _advantageous_ match and a comfortable life for you, but you grew bored. You're bored so you came here looking for adventure. _"_ He scoffed, adjusting his arms, "but now you're having second thoughts because your husband's poor heart would be just _broken_ if he ever discovered his beautiful little bird was unfaithful. And that thought is just too fucking hard for you to cope with, isn't it, _my lady_?"

Petra stared ahead at him, mouth agape, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "No," she breathed, "that isn't it at all."

He gestured for her to humor him and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to force the chill from her bones.

"I was a child bride," she told him, "sold into marriage at twelve years old. I hadn't even experienced my first bleed yet. My husband was, at the time, fifty-seven and though I knew nothing of men, I couldn't escape him. Every night, afternoon, morning—it didn't matter. It was my duty and there was nothing I could do about it. No matter how afraid I was, I was bound by our laws to let him do as he pleased."

She took a pause, looking back on what she had considered her childhood. "As I grew older his affections waned and I was thankful for this. When I was old enough to recognize what that meant, however, I. . ."

Levi stared ahead at the woman in his chamber, trying to understand how a man at such an advanced age could prey on such a small girl. He himself had just passed the age of thirty, significantly younger than fifty-seven, and the idea of even looking upon a child with lust had his throat tight and his stomach in knots.

Petra turned away from him, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking as she spoke. "I have two girls, Mr. Ackerman," she told him, "my eldest is eight. _Eight_ , and I see the way he looks at her. I'll _never_ forget that look."

Levi took a step forward, brow knit in disgust. He was disgusted with her husband and his lewd appetite, but most of all he was disgusted with himself for assuming her reasons for seeking him out, for lacking the understanding that someone of her stature could be just as he was. _Chattel._

"She isn't his wife," she said, her words trembling as tears spilled from her eyes, "she is his _daughter_. She is a _child_." She took another breath, fanning her eyes to compose herself.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, "I just. . .I felt safe here and the words simply tumbled out. What a ninny I am."

"What do you want with me, then?" he asked. They both knew he couldn't solve her problems at home and he was certain she didn't expect him to. She had needed a listening ear and by contract, he happened to be available.

"I want what you can't give me," she replied, throwing him a hopeless smile.

"There's got to be something you want or else you wouldn't be here."

She didn't respond right away, moving across the room to admire some of his personal effects, arranged perfectly on a dustless shelf.

"I have one wish," she replied, running her fingers down the silk of the dressing gown that hung on a hook besides the bath, "that for one night I might feel the touch of a man not driven by perversion. I want to take comfort in strong arms, for my body to be kissed tenderly and my hair stroked with no ill intentions. I want, for one night, to be in love."

Petra smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Even if it is nothing more than pretend."

Levi took a breath, crossing the room to stand behind her, the backs of his knuckles stroking the sleeve of her gown. His heart, so hardened and callous, broke for her plight, even if it were just for this moment. She wasn't so unusual, not moreso than any of the other women who paid for his time. Every one of them was escaping in some way.

But there was something different in her. She wasn't running away from boredom or loneliness like so many others. She wasn't running away from anything. She simply wanted a break. One night, she had said. One night. That was all he had with her.

His fingers slid upwards, sliding across the delicately soft skin of her neck and his lips pressed against her back, exposed by the daring cuts of high society fashion.

"I am not romantic," he told her softly, "I can not be what you need."

The feel of his hands, strong and unwrinkled on her flesh set her body aflame, and his kisses trailing up her neck and under her ear turned her knees to water. She didn't need flowery words or playful banter over tea. She needed understanding.

"No," she said firmly, spinning on her heel to face him, shoving her hands into his hair, so soft and welcoming. His eyes bore no amusement, but she pulled him forward, her lips a mere breath away from his own as she whispered into his mouth.

"You are _exactly_ what I need."

She closed the distance between them and he reached forward, hands planted firmly on her hips as he drew her closer, welcoming her kiss. He'd never allowed a woman to kiss him so quickly before, if at all. He wasn't there to be a prince, to romance a girl into his warm embrace. His job was pleasure. Quick, straightforward pleasure with no emotion, no feeling, and no lingering questions of ' _what if_ '.

Why then was he pulling her forward as he maneuvered them through his room? Why did he lower himself into the armchair, letting out a soft masculine groan of displeasure when she pulled away momentarily for air? Why was he pulling her up onto his lap, and _why_ was _he_ feeling the pull of desire when she was the one who had come calling?

" _Levi_ ," she breathed, disregarding all propriety and allowing herself to express the blissful sensation rippling through her body. It was nothing she'd experienced before, fast and demanding, his hands on her face, in her hair, sliding down her back, but it was practiced, almost choreographed—a complete contrast to the sloppy oafish love of the man who took what he felt was owed to him.

Levi said nothing in response, his nose pressed against her temple, his mouth opened but unmoving on her flesh, breathing her in, desperate to imprint the memory of how this woman felt beneath his hands.

As he stopped moving, his fingertips resting on her neck, Petra leaned forward, kissing the side of his face, lips lingering for longer than was necessary.

"Thank you," she whispered.

 _Thank you_ he echoed back in his own head. What he was thanking her for, he'd never know, but when she rustled her skirts and lifted herself from his lap, he felt a small sting of disappointment. She'd been so warm.

"Should we undress?" he suggested. It wasn't what he wanted to do with her, Hell it wasn't what he wanted to do with most of the women who visited him, but the idea of laying with her for the sake of it put a sour taste in his mouth. She'd been tossed around and used for so long, it didn't feel right adding to her loveless encounters. Still, _she_ had come to _him_. One didn't walk into a pleasure house _not_ looking for pleasure.

"No," she told him, drumming her fingers against one of the bedposts, "I won't make love to you."

For a moment, Levi's pride was stung. Certainly he was a far more attractive prospect than the wrinkly old man she kept, but when he saw her eyes, drawn again to his personal belongings, he knew it wasn't her disgust that kept her clothing close to her body.

"Why."

It was curiosity that poked at his brain, causing the word to spill from his lips as he leaned back in the chair, crossing a booted ankle over his thigh, replacing his wonder with a haughty indifference, being sure to keep all of his walls in place.

She smiled, though she didn't look at him, quirking her head at a small leather pouch, attached to it, a string that looked ready to turn to dust.

"Because you don't want to," she replied, her voice calm and soft, maternal and gentle.

"You paid for me."

"I paid for your time," she told him, turning to face him once again, "I believe it is my choice as to how we use this time."

"This is a whorehouse," he stated, annoyance coming through his tone, "you know what whores do, don't you?"

"Of course I know what whor—what goes on in a pleasure house," she huffed, "but that doesn't mean everyone under their employ wants to engage in such activities every time."

"And what makes you think I'm so against doing my job?"

Petra paused for a moment, lowering her lashes briefly before looking directly at him. "Because the look you bear is the one I have worn for the better part of ten years."

Levi snorted, shifting in his seat. As if this woman had any idea. "Yeah?" he challenged, "what's that?"

"Obedience."

His eyes flashed, but she didn't recoil.

"If you hate your husband so much then leave," he snapped, "divorce isn't so uncommon here."

"No, it isn't," she agreed, lowering herself onto the bed, "and I could leave him if I had the strength to."

"Then what's stopping you?"

She sighed, caressing one of the posters, "Even though I can leave, my girls can't. They belong to him. If I were to set myself free, I'd have to give them up forever."

Levi's jaw tightened and he let out a humorless breath of air. "That's what happens when you let yourself get sold," he told her, failing to make light of either of their situations, "they trap you."

Petra lifted her head slightly, tilting it to one side. "So you were sold too. By your family? The Ackermans?"

He set his lips into a thin line, standing and taking her chin in one of his hands, steely gaze bearing down into her eyes, wide and golden.

"I'm not a real Ackerman," he whispered, drawing her close to him and tickling her mouth with his own, the tease of a kiss, "or so they love to remind me."

 **xxxx**

 **Author's Note:** I know a lot of you from tumblr have been waiting a long time for this to finally drop and I hope I haven't left any of you dissatisfied!


	2. The Man of Humble Origins

**Author's Note:** As stated in chapter one, there are heavy dealings with abuse in this fic. Those sensitive to these matters please proceed with caution.

 **The Smith House**

Chapter 02

When Mike Zakarius had offered his arm to the lady who had bought him, he took note of her hesitation. He had seen the flash of fear in her eyes when presented with his comrade, Farlan Church, and though Mike knew that Farlan himself was no threat to a lady, he also understood how intimidating the smooth charmer could be to a female inexperienced with buying affection.

He laid his fingers atop her own, clutching the crook of his arm, but his touch was neither commanding nor secure. Instead, he allowed only a whisper of contact, enough to appreciate her choosing him, but detached enough to show he had no intentions of taking charge unless she requested he do so.

"A dance, my lady?" It wasn't one of his stronger attributes, but there was romance to be had in the closeness of a dance that was paramount to this business.

"No," came Nanaba's offhanded rejection, her eyes sweeping this way and that as they strolled through the establishment, "I think I would prefer something more private."

He nodded in acquiescence, steering them in the direction of his room. There would be much to do behind closed doors. Certainly she would not be bored.

She didn't speak much, but each time he glanced down at her, he could see thoughts churning inside of her head. She was a pretty little thing and it wasn't beyond his own curiosity as to why she was in a place such as this. Was she widowed? She couldn't have been any older than twenty-five, and even that was a bit of a stretch to his estimate, so it was understandable that such a young person would be looking for comfort.

He had recognized her friend, Lady Ral, and had been wondering when she would have found her way to _The Smith House_ _,_ but this face was new to him.

"Do you wish for anonymity as well as privacy?" he wondered, bowing as he opened his door to her. Her fingers slipped from his arm as she glided inside, taking in the appearance of his chambers, designed exactly as all the others.

"My name is Nanaba," she replied absently, "that is all I claim."

"A pleasure," he told her, flicking the lock on he door that no one would disturb them, and offered his hand to her, though she didn't take it.

"And you?" she countered, "who are you?"

Mike smiled at this, pouring a flute of champagne and holding it out to her. "I am whatever my lady wishes me to be."

Nanaba stared at the crystal for a moment, watching the bubbles float up to the surface before refuting this as well.

"No."

Mike quirked a brow. He'd had hard to please ladies before, but never one who turned down a glass of champagne.

"I don't want lies," she clarified.

"You do recognize the establishment and its purpose, do you not, my lady?"

Nanaba turned away, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one side, staring into the unlit fireplace.

"I don't expect you to open yourself to me, sir," she told him, her voice gentle and honest, but with a firm overtone that alerted him of the power she was trying desperately to hold over him, "but I am through with men claiming to be what they aren't, and I will not stand for it here."

He relaxed at this, setting down both drinks. "My name is Mike Zakarius," he said quietly, "I am of humble origins."

Nanaba snuck a glance back at him, standing so strong and sure by the decorative table the champagne had sat, dwarfed by his form.

He smiled at her, offering his hand once again, "and I will not lie to you."

"Perhaps we should get on with it then," she sighed, returning to face him and gracing him with her fingertips, "would you like to undress me or would you prefer to watch me do so?"

Her question surprised him. While it was no secret that emotional connection was lacking in his daily encounters with women, and he was more than willing to admit that he more often than not simply went through the motions on his end when it came to sex, preferring to find genuine pleasure by himself, it had never before seemed so cut and dry as what this woman was offering him now. Surely she wanted. . . _something_ from him. A kiss, perhaps? Adoring words and a bit of naughty teasing to, ah, set the mood?

But no. She waited patiently for his response, expecting _him_ to direct the game. She didn't seem like an overly submissive sort of woman so he chalked her attitude up to inexperience and played his part.

"Allow me, my lady."

She nodded at this, taking a small breath and turning, giving him the buttons that ran up her back, keeping her shoulders squared and her head high. When he ran a knuckle across the nape of her neck, he felt her quiver, and he paused.

It wasn't nerves; he knew more about nervousness than he cared to. This was fear. It was well disguised and any other man may have overlooked it, but Mike was not any other man.

What was she afraid of, he wondered. He wouldn't be rough with her. Despite his size, he was an easygoing sort of man, gentle and kind, putting the needs and desires of his lady clients before any of his own thoughts or wants. She had noticed this, as when she had paid for him, had claimed she wanted him because he had kind eyes.

He could feel her careful breathing with each button that he slipped from its loop, her conscious yet concealed attempts at keeping herself calm. When he pushed the gown down her arms and the silk pooled at her feet, he saw her squeeze her eyes shut for just a moment.

"Are you alright, My Lady?"

"Quite fine," she replied, her voice just as placid as it had been all night. If she wasn't going to admit to being afraid, he wasn't going to be so indecent as to out her.

He unlaced her corset and panniers with ease, folding them with the gown and placing them on a winged armchair, and when she stood before him in nothing but her chemise, it had become more difficult for her to hide the way her breathing was becoming more sporadic and the way the tips of her fingers were trembling. She let out a small hum that he was almost positive she hadn't meant to, and when he took hold of the lacing that closed the back of the linen undergarment, she bowed her head.

"I can stop," he told her, "there are many other things we can do here. If you are uncomfortable—"

"I am _fine_ ," she pressed, before her voice dropped to a volume that he was sure he wasn't supposed to hear, "I'll be fine."

He wasn't in a position to deny her requests, so he closed his mouth and set to work removing the chemise. As he opened the lacing and her skin became visible to him, he slowed his movements. From beneath the fabric, where he had expected smooth porcelain to match her face and hands, he was met with purple, clouds of yellows, greens, and browns.

Swallowing, he pushed the garment from her shoulders. He'd seen bruised women before. The Smith House was an escape for females, after all, but these were not just _bruises_.

The cloth fell away from her body and he couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips. The colours that clumped on her shoulder blades were a mere prelude to what she had been subject to. Lash marks whipped across her back in an ugly crosshatch, some of them old and healed into thin pink scars, where others were still red and raw, freshly administered.

Down her spine, placed in a perfect, precise, _methodical_ design, were round welts, new ones layered with care over the old, the signs of burning. It wasn't wax or oil play gone wrong; it was purposeful, a punishment.

There was more bruising at her lower back, where her kidneys were, and he trailed his own now shaking fingers over the wounds. The blows to her shoulders were superficial, but this was distinctly deliberate, someone who knew exactly what they were doing, and what types of pain to bring upon her.

Her backside had not been spared, but the damage to her buttocks was minimal. There was, however, a very specific, no, _two_ specific marks, one on each side of her hips, deep, darkened bruises in the shape of hands, wrapping around to the front of her pelvis, the brand of her assailant keeping her in place.

Nanaba lifted her chin again, inhaling deeply and swallowing down the urge to cry. She had never bared herself to anyone this way and not even her greatest friend knew the extent of her injuries.

"I understand that I am unsightly," she said quietly, choosing her words carefully and doing what she could not to break, "if you find me repulsive, we needn't continue."

"Who did this to you." For all of his strength and the power that he had commanded his entire life, his words came out weak and broken, the suave lover he had been trained to be falling away at the horror that stood before him.

She turned her head a bit, offering him a small upturn of her lips. "I know that I'm ugly, sir, you don't need—"

" _Who did this to you._ "

This time his voice was stronger, concerned and alarmed. Nanaba crossed her arms over her bare chest, inhaling sharply.

"My husband," she whispered.

Frown set hard on his face, he walked around her, eyes sweeping over the front of her body when he came to a stop directly in front of her. The front was't nearly as bad as her back: bite marks scattered around and bruising at her breasts.

"And he still lives?"

Nanaba's tongue poked out to wet her bottom lip and she nodded.

Mike took a moment to digest this information. Abusive husbands were by no means rare in their society, but many of their victims did not have the courage to escape them, to seek out the arms of another, yet she had.

"Why have you come to me?" He needed to know. If nothing else, he needed to hear her bravery, to know that whoever the monster that waited for her at home was, he had not broken this woman completely.

For a moment she didn't reply, trying to put into words the motive behind her presence here. It wasn't that she craved affection; she didn't even enjoy sex, and was unaware that there was the possibility of it ever _being_ enjoyable. She had had her freedom torn from her four years prior and for those four years she had resigned herself to her fate, resisting within the household, but never truly making an attempt to claim a life of her own.

"I have been forced to make love for years," she admitted, the first time she had ever voiced a word against the man since she'd confessed to her mother who had then slapped her face, scolding her for speaking ill of her husband.

"That's not making love," Mike quipped, "it's rape."

Nanaba let out a small huff in response, giving him a pointed look. "I was trying to be delicate," she replied. "but this time, I wanted it to be my choice, my decision. I wanted to chose who, and when, and how, and for how long. I just—"

She closed her eyes, clearing her mind. "I just wanted something good to hold onto."

He relaxed then, rapping his fingers against his own arm. "You are very brave, My Lady."

"I'm terrified," she told him, "even if I pretend otherwise."

"Bravery emerges in times of terror, does it not? There's no need for bravery when there is no danger."

"Are you a danger to me?"

Mike's eyes snapped to hers and he unfolded his arms, kneeling and taking her hand, the only part of her he could justify touching without her direct consent, laying a soft kiss against her knuckles.

"I promised not to lie to you, and now I swear I will not hurt you. You are safe here, Nanaba."

Her name, so familiar on his tongue sent a small fluttering through her stomach and he smiled up at her.

"Do you trust me?"

Those kind eyes of his, green or gold she couldn't tell, stared up at her, waiting patiently for her go ahead, for her to tell him she was willing, and that she would let him do what he did best.

"I can't."

He wasn't disappointed, but he saw in her eyes, that striking icy blue, that the idea of trust was a burden, and she wasn't able to hold anything else on her shoulders.

"The last man I trusted married me. Look where that got me."

Mike moved to stand, to retrieve her clothing and tell her she didn't have to do what she thought she did, but her hand on his shoulder stopped him. He felt her fingers tighten on his clothing and she steeled herself for confidence.

"But I didn't come here for trust."

Even through his tailcoat and shirt, the feel of her hand on him was electric, a feeling he'd never experienced within these walls and he gave her arm a small tug, coaxing her to step forward while he laid another kiss her hand.

"Have you ever been kissed properly, My Lady?"

"I don't know," she admitted, raising her head to follow his movement as he stood, towering over her.

He gave her a soft grin before he bent forward, his two large and calloused hands cupping her face, thumb running over her cheekbones, spared of any abuse. When his lips met hers they were soft and genuine, no doubt from years of practice, but when he didn't shove his fingers into her hair, pulling at her, and he didn't force his tongue between her teeth, Nanaba's knees began to resist her vertical position.

He pulled away for a sliver of a moment before he kissed her again, tender and sure, his mustache tickling her face. It was chaste, and she knew he was only doing it because she had paid for it, but it was kiss from a storybook, and she never wanted it to end.

It did end, but she wasn't saddened by it. He rested his forehead against her own, a smile soft and satisfied on his lips, still cradling her face in his hands.

"Was that a proper kiss then?" she wondered, slightly breathless and trying to keep her bearings.

"Aye, milady," he whispered, forgetting his gentlemanly speech, the feel of this woman against him robbing him of his own clarity, "a proper kiss indeed."

Unsure of what she ought to do now, Nanaba reached forward, testing her position and resting her tiny hand on his chest.

"And what follows a proper kiss, Mr. Zakarius?"

With one finger crooked under her chin he lifted her face to look up at him. "I'd like to give you another sort of kiss."

The way her brow crinkled as she thought to herself, wondering what other sorts of kisses there might be made Mike's heart thump in his chest as if he were a lad of sixteen. How long had she been married, he wondered. Brutality had left her cracked and jaded, yet she was, as it seemed, in many ways still an innocent and innocence was one thing he hadn't owned for longer than he cared to think about.

"I'll show you," he said, taking hold of her hands once again, leading her to the bed and helping her onto it. He watched her run her fingers over the reindeer pelt he had laid atop it, marveling at its plush softness. He removed his topcoat, and undid the buttons of his sleeves, rolling them up quarter of the way, flashing the muscles in his forearms.

Naked on another man's bed, Nanaba was beginning to doubt herself. She should leave before she went too far. She shouldn't have come in the first place. She'd sworn a sacred vow four years ago and here she was, throwing that vow in the gutter.

But then she looked up at Mike Zakarius, the man of humble origins who would not lie to her, and she stayed.

"You're doing a lot of preparing for a kiss," she noted, finding her courage and laying back against the many pillows, letting out a small yelp when she sunk into them.

He hummed in response, kneeling the floor at the edge of the bed and motioning for her to scoot forward. "It is a very special kiss."

She did as he requested, curiosity etched on her features, but when he laid his hands on her knees, she froze, stiff in her uncertainty. Understanding, he kissed each of them, resting his chin on the blockade she had formed with her legs.

"It won't hurt," he promised, "and if you wish for me to stop, say the word."

"This is adultery," she said, propping herself up with her elbows, "and if he finds out. . ."

Mike removed himself from her then. He wouldn't coerce or otherwise talk her into doing something she was only half confident in doing. His job was to cater to the desires of women, not convince them to do things they would regret in the morning.

"Would you prefer tea then?" he asked. There were plenty of things they could fill their time with that didn't involve physical intimacies, activities that perhaps she would be more comfortable with in her escape.

"No."

 _No?_

"I want you to kiss me," she told him, her words firm even if her voice trembled, "even though I'm scared, I want you to show me your special kiss."

His hand hovered over her clenched legs. "Are you sure?"

"No," she confessed, willing herself to relax, "but if I don't try, I'll never have anything to hold on to."

He nudged her legs apart and she let him, focusing on her breathing once again. He lifted himself up, elbows settling down on either side of her ribs while he stretched his neck to lay a few gentle kisses on the underside of her jaw.

"I'll walk you through it," he whispered, sliding back down her body, peppering affection all down her body, keeping clear of any injured areas.

Nanaba watched, marveling at how large he was in comparison to her. Walk her through it? What on Earth would he need to walk her through?

She saw him graze over her hips and she cringed when he purposefully avoided her bruises. Was he afraid to hurt her? Or did he not want to intrude upon the mark of another man?

He found her thighs and the muscles in her legs locked. He didn't flinch at what he saw: the perfect shapes in her skin burned away and regrown anew, like patches on a peasant's doll. He didn't touch them either. Instead, he whispered apologies onto the scars, his breath tickling the sensitive flesh and sending a ripple of something strange coursing through her body. It wasn't sorrow, but why did it feel that way? It choked her, forcing tears into her eyes but she sat strong in what she had promised herself. She would not cry. Not here, not for him.

His head dipped down, distracting her, and she pushed herself up, trying to get a better look at what he was about to do when the feeling of his mouth, hot and wet on her womanhood wiped all thoughts from her mind. She cried out, an unfathomable word, likely made up by her surprise while she struggled to keep herself propped up with her steadily weakening arms.

She thought she might have felt him chuckle, but truth be told she didn't know _what_ she was feeling. No one had _ever_ put their mouth in such a vulgar place before and though— _oh God was that his tongue?!_ —she was more than willing to admit this was a pleasant surprise, it was—

Mike lifted his face from between her legs, biting back the laughter when he saw she had given up her watch, laying flat on her back, eyes closed and face flushed.

"Well don't _stop_!" she scolded, hand flying to cover her mouth at her lewd order. When had she become such a woman?

"Are you alright?" he asked, stroking her cheek with his knuckles. He knew the answer, but he extended the courtesy regardless.

"I—I think so," she replied, "no. Yes." She threw an arm over her eyes, "oh what a strange kiss."

"I'm not done kissing you," he murmured against her thigh before returning to his task, inhaling the scent of her, purely unique and undoubtedly unappreciated by her husband. She sighed when he ran his tongue up her slit, and when he took the sensitive bud at her core between his teeth, he felt her hands reaching for his hair, timid but driven by lust, driven by _instinct_.

It wasn't long before her fingers pushed against his head, pressing his face into her and bucking her hips, her soft mewls of _please don't stop!_ echoing in his ears. She'd never in her life experienced such a thing, so much pleasure shooting through her at once, in all directions.

By the time she had reached her peak, it was his name on her lips, a long moan of a cry that resonated through the room while she arched her back and allowed her body its release before collapsing limp on the pelt of the reindeer on the bed of Mike Zakarius, the man of humble origins who had not lied to her and had not hurt her.

 **xxxx**

 **Author's Note:** Okay so I'm not very proficient at writing smut but as it seems I'm even _less_ proficient at writing lower key acceptable-for-this-website smut. I apologize.


End file.
